


1982

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1990s, Angel Billy Hargrove, Angst with a Happy Ending, California, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Season/Series 03, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: There’s a little shop on the far end of Venice Beach with a sign reading Venice Stoneware and neon hanging in the windows, offering tarot and palm readings and what Steve suspects to be marijuana with the right password. Under the rough California sun, Steve sits on a bench and stares inside, the collar of his button-down beginning to itch. His tie may as well be a noose; he loosens it, if only to breathe easier. He fiddles with this folded suit jacket in his lap, a patent leather shoe clicking on the sidewalk.Skateboarders pass him without a second look. Bicyclists meander by. Families chat amongst each other on the beach. Men compliment the size of each other’s biceps. Waves crash against the shore, overshadowing the gulls gathering at his feet, expecting food.He shouldn’t be here.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 11
Kudos: 133





	1982

**Author's Note:**

> Operator, please connect me with 1982  
> I need to make apologies for what I didn't do  
> I sure do need to tell her that I've thought the whole thing through  
> And now it's clear that she is what I should have held on to

There’s a little shop on the far end of Venice Beach with a sign reading Venice Stoneware and neon hanging in the windows, offering tarot and palm readings and what Steve suspects to be marijuana with the right password. Under the rough California sun, Steve sits on a bench and stares inside, the collar of his button-down beginning to itch. His tie may as well be a noose; he loosens it, if only to breathe easier. He fiddles with this folded suit jacket in his lap, a patent leather shoe clicking on the sidewalk.

Skateboarders pass him without a second look. Bicyclists meander by. Families chat amongst each other on the beach. Men compliment the size of each other’s biceps. Waves crash against the shore, overshadowing the gulls gathering at his feet, expecting food.

He shouldn’t be here. Los Angeles is another forty minutes away, and he’s supposed to be at a conference with his father, listening to some marketing mumbo jumbo so he can join the executive board next year. Most of his seminars, he finished yesterday, leaving him with another two days to spare before he has to grace the halls of the Los Angeles Marriott for his last meeting.

More than enough time to take in the local sights, or in his case, wherever the interstate drops him off at. Venice sounded like an interesting location, like it would be filled with shops and canals and decidedly more hip people than himself.

Everything smells like pot and stale sweat, with a faint hint of salt hanging at the end of every breath. Not at all what he expected—then again, Steve never thought he’d get to see California in person. Back in Indiana, winter holds the state in a vice, dumping snow onto the roads and across every city it can find. Here, Steve basks in the sunlight, relishes in the sweat beading under his collar.

Yet, his heart races. Absently, he rubs his palms against his slacks as he stares into the shop. Two girls step out from beyond a beaded curtain, giggling to each other and admiring the rings on their fingers. Incense wafts after them, and Steve scrunches up his nose, fighting off a sneeze. Still better than the pot stink, by far. Nothing about the storefront should terrify him, nor should it send him spiraling back almost a decade, but it does. No matter how hard he tries, Steve can’t turn his eyes away, especially when he spots a man walking behind near-pitch black windows, the white of his robe swaying with every step.

Something about him, even at a distance, feels familiar. So much so, that Steve can't bring himself to leave, no matter how hard people stare at him, no matter how many birds flock to him. A pigeon pecks his shoe; Steve kicks it away, earning a scowl from a woman old enough to be his grandmother.

The neon green of the OPEN sign switches to CLOSED, the bright red bulb catching Steve’s attention. Unpleasantly, his stomach turns. He should leave—should just get back in his rental car and head back to Burbank, or Thousand Oaks, or wherever he’s supposed to be right now. His feet apparently have a mind of their own, though. Before he can think twice, he throws his jacket over his shoulder and crosses the sidewalk, stepping through the beads and into the dark, cool abyss of the store.

The incense doesn’t bother him nearly as bad as he thought it would, considering how it seeps into everything it touches. Stepping onto an ornate rug, Steve clears his throat and looks around, noting the cases full of polished stones and geodes, the tapestries draped over the walls, the rows of paperbacks and tarot decks lining the wall-to-wall bookcase. Dreamcatchers and windchimes hang from the ceiling; something indistinct plays on the boombox in the corner, resembling white noise but not quite. The placard on the desk by the window reads Cash Only, and the register sits out of sight, probably hidden in a drawer.

Among it all, beyond the empty tables and souvenir t-shirts lining the back wall, is a red velvet curtain, swaying lightly with the breeze steaming through the front door. Wherever the owner is, they must have stepped out—if they really didn’t want Steve in there, they would’ve closed the gate above the door.

Swallowing, Steve sucks in a breath. Nobody ever said he was a master of bright ideas. “Hello?” he calls out, loud enough to echo.

No one answers immediately, but someone is here. “Read the sign,” a voice calls out from the back of the shop, and—

 _No_.

Some things in life, Steve can’t ever forget. The copper scent of blood when he nicks himself shaving always reminds him of dark, rain-soaked nights with a bat in his hands. Chlorine kept him away from pools until maybe a few months ago, when Robin shoved him into one, supposedly on accident. School bells ringing through the halls, cigarette smoke wafting through open car windows.

The color blue.

That voice, Steve hasn’t heard in almost seven years. Seven years to the day, where Steve packed up everything he owned and moved to a small apartment in Chicago, leaving behind a trail of carnage in his wake. Hawkins never fully recovered after the fire; most of its residents left to start over in new cities, where the cloud of suspicious deaths and strange happenings wouldn't hang over their heads.

Steve spent four months working at Family Video before his dad offered him an entry level position—and he accepted, just to get out of town and never look back. Robin ran halfway across the country as soon as she could, hopping from job to job, until she settled down in one of the major studios.

Yet, in all that time, no matter where he traveled, Steve never forgot that specific shade of blue paint, that lecherous grin, that voice. All of it rushes back, his heart pounding a breakneck pace, stomach in his throat. The curtain pulls; Steve chokes back a gag.

Barefooted and wearing nothing but a pair of Levi’s, Billy Hargrove steps into view, wearing at least three rosaries of various lengths and colors. Numerous bracelets jangle on his wrists, and rings adorn every finger, some ornate, others cheap. Two earrings dangle from his right ear, and a pendant hangs close to his throat, the same brassy color Steve remembers from so long ago.

He’s older now, Steve thinks, with harder lines and tighter angles. A litany of scars mar his chest, silvered and faded with the sun. Freckles dot his shoulders and spread across his nose, under his eyes. Impossibly, his hair is even brighter now, golden curls teasing the barest edge of his nape, wild and untamed.

His eyes, though, still remind Steve of the ocean, blue, blue, _blue_.

Said eyes narrow at the sight of him, Billy’s lips curling into a sneer. “Out,” he snarls, marching across the shop. He seizes Steve by the shoulder and forces him into the entryway, all while Steve refuses to fight back, too shocked to do much other than be led. “I want you out—”

“How are you alive?” Steve asks, dumbfounded, just before Billy shoves him back into the sunlight. Billy screams something at him, but all Steve hears is the ocean and laughter, dogs barking, bicyclists pedaling past.

Just as soon as he appeared, Billy is gone again, and all Steve can do is stand there, jacket in hand, wondering how he ended up here.

-+-

Billy Hargrove died on his eighteenth birthday.

At least, that’s the story the Hawkins Reporter ran the day after the destruction of Starcourt Mall. Some nights, when the pedestrian traffic outside of the shop dies down and the interstates calm, Billy remembers what that night felt like, the sudden resurgence after wasting away for days, only to die seconds later, in a way no person should ever have to experience. Cold, alone, regretting every decision he ever made, and wishing he could start over again.

Then he did. Then he woke up with armor-padded men filing in with guns drawn, and Billy did the only thing he could think of.

He flew.

The sun sets early in California, especially in December. With its absence comes the bitter chill of night, extinguishing the blue sky and replacing it with an abysmal blackness, only broken up by the pinpricks of stars. Sitting on the beach, Billy pulls his knees in, arms wrapped around his calves; his wings slump behind his back, tawny and blending in with the sand. During the day, he keeps them hidden, tucks them away as tightly as he possibly can. At night, he sits with his feet in the water and lets the breeze card through his feathers, until he feels real again, until things maybe start to make sense.

Tonight, shivers wrack his wings, and his breath shakes with every exhale. Tears prickle the corners of his eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Hawkins was supposed to be a fluke, a distant memory, the worst year of his life. And then Hawkins had to show its ugly face again in the form of Steve Harrington, with his pressed suit and Armani shoes and stupid, _stupid_ tie, lopsided and half-undone. As far as he’s concerned, Steve and the rest of them are dead to him, and Max is better off thinking he’s dead.

Billy has a life here. A good life, with his own business and an apartment a few blocks away, and now Steve is going to ruin it for him, if he doesn’t ruin Steve first.

A few yards away, waves crash onto the shore, spreading white foam wherever the water touches. Exhaling, Billy digs his fingers into the sand, looking for nothing in particular. Mostly, he familiarizes himself with the crunch of the grains in his fist, fine particles catching under his nails. His scars hurt tonight, an ache no number of painkillers can fully ease. Most days, he can work through the pain, can ignore the memories of where they came from, but not today.

Today, it feels like a fresh wound, like he’s still bleeding black sludge onto cheap tile floors and staring up into pink and blue neon. If he tries hard enough, he can still smell the carcass of the beast that possessed him, stole him away, killed him, all because he disobeyed. The one thing his father struggled to instill in him for years, and the one thing he could never do.

 _Obey_.

“I thought you were… I went to your funeral,” Steve says from a distance. Billy startles and stands, wings at their full breadth, and fights the urge to run at him, pure muscle memory at work. To his misfortune, Steve doesn’t move, nor does he speak, his eyes darting to the twin shapes blocking out the horizon. Billy pulls them in tighter, on edge. “I saw your headstone, Hargrove, you’re—You’re dead.”

“Like fuck I’m dead,” Billy spits, and rushes forward, encroaching into Steve’s space in seconds. He’s more casual now, in jeans and a Cornell University sweatshirt, but still with that smug air that Billy has always hated. Steve dodges the first swing, but the second lands, colliding with his cheek; his ring splits Steve’s skin, spilling blood. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he growls, knuckles landing again, again, until Steve catches him by the wrist. “You’re gonna fuck everything up—”

“Billy, come on,” Steve tries, winded.

But Billy keeps swinging, ends up with Steve on his back under a streetlight, knees bracketing hips. “You’re gonna ruin everything,” he says, voice wobbling. Steve catches his fists and rolls, flipping Billy over. Billy follows him when he stands, tears in his eyes, feathers covered in sand. “You’re gonna—“

“Billy.”

His name, so resigned yet reverent. Billy breaks, collapsing to his knees. Part of him fights back when Steve wraps his arms around Billy’s neck, pulling him into the first embrace Billy has felt in a long, long while. Billy claws at him, teeth sinking into cheap cotton while he sobs, and Steve holds him, bearing his weight, taking on his despair.

“It’s alright,” Steve says into his ear. Idly, he traces his fingertips into Billy’s scalp, and Billy shudders, his breaths little more than hiccups. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“Hate you,” Billy lies, fists Steve’s sweatshirt until the fabric threatens to give. His head hurts—everything hurts even more now, now that Steve is here, now that Hawkins is back, ruining his life once again. “Hate you, hate…”

“I know,” Steve shushes. He holds Billy tighter, shivering in the cold. “I know, Billy.”

-+-

Billy’s apartment is… more than Steve expected. Small and in desperate need of updated appliances, it feels homey, with well-used furniture and candles on every available surface, and a cat sleeping on the couch, curled up in a woven blanket. His front window sits wide open, the screen facing the ocean; Steve can smell the salt in the air from here, can hear the roar of the waves.

For a while, Steve watches him go through the motions in his bedroom: removing his jewelry and setting it all in the armoire by the nightstand, toeing off his sandals and digging a worn t-shirt out of the dresser. Steve waits outside while he changes, and only comes in when Billy lets him, after Billy sits in the middle of his bed, cross-legged and looking younger than he should be.

The wings, though, are entirely new.

“Thought you’d never leave Indiana,” Billy says, palming his eyes. He never really did stop crying after they left the beach, and honestly, Steve doesn’t blame him. Seeing Billy like this hurts, leaves Steve torn in every direction. “Who died and forced you here?”

Steve sighs and sits at the foot of the bed, back to Billy. Billy’s feathers rustle, one wing sprawled into the window. “No one,” he says, struggles not to touch Billy’s wing. “Came out here for a conference. I’m supposed to be learning how to sell computers, or some shit. Honestly, half the time, I’m asleep in my office, and the rest of it I’m doing… whatever this is.”

Exhaustion creeps in behind Steve’s eyes, bearing down on his shoulders. Billy must notice, but doesn’t otherwise mention it. “Must be cushy,” Billy mumbles.

The mattress shifts; out of the corner of his eye, Steve watches Billy crawl under the covers, both wings gone. The only evidence remaining are the slits running diagonal to his shoulder blades, dangerously close to the silvered mass of flesh between his ribs. _Not human_ , Steve thinks, followed by, _that explains some things_.

“Not really.” Turning his back to the window, Steve pulls his legs up onto the bed, ankles crossed. If he wanted, he could touch Billy’s foot, could fit his hand around his ankle. Years ago, Billy might’ve let him. Billy would’ve let him do a lot of things, but that was another time. Another decade, even. “The… wings,” he sidetracks, only to hear Billy groan. “That’s… Those are new?”

Billy doesn’t answer him for a long few minutes. In the interim, Steve listens to the ocean, seawater washing over his senses. He knows why Billy likes it here. Two days ago, he stepped off the plane with a twitch in his eye and anxiety building a second home in his gut. Here, Steve can breathe again. Given the chance, and he would stay in this bed forever, just listening to Billy breathe, to the sounds of nature.

Tucking the sheets up under his chin, Billy explains, “I have some… gene thing. From my mom. Like some people have red hair, or different colored eyes, I have wings. Only, dear old dad never told me, probably half the reason why he slapped me around.”

Steve wrenches his attention away from the waves to Billy, jaw clenched. “Did he—”

“Not a lot,” Billy says, then sits up, palms pressed to his eyes. “Most of it was just getting in my head, but… made me feel like I didn’t belong there. And I didn't. Still don't. ‘Cause every time he looked at me, he saw mom, and apparently what I was.”

“What are you?” Steve asks, tentative.

The look Billy gives him could cut glass, or melt his heart. He doesn’t exactly know which one he prefers. Rather than reply, Billy crawls out from under the covers and kneels at Steve’s side, pressing his thumb to his cheek, where a bruise blossoms, blood clotted nicely. Years later, and he still can’t feel parts of his face, specifically around his eye. What he does feel, though, is a sudden rush of cold, then the cuts knitting together, bruises fading before they can settle in.

Steve gasps the minute Billy backs away, leaving him to feel his cheek and the untouched skin there, fresh and made new. “You’re—”

“Not human,” Billy says, simple as anything. “But not an angel either. Just my genetics. ‘S what kept me alive, after… After.”

After. Steve vividly remembers after, remembers kneeling over Billy’s corpse while soldiers rushed in, remembers Robin wrenching him away to join the rest of the kids. Whatever happened after that, he just took the official report as fact. Billy Hargrove was dead, buried without a memorial service, and Steve visited him every day until autumn rolled around. But he never saw Billy’s body after the fact.

Because Billy is here, alive and living on the coast, back where he belongs.

“They’re kinda cool,” Steve says, unsure of how to follow up. It’s fitting of him, an angel in the city of angels.

Sure, people like Billy exist, but they’re one in hundreds of thousands, and as far as Steve knows, everyone back in Hawkins is human. Except for that one girl in elementary school, with blue eyes so pale that Steve always knew something was wrong with her. But Billy never struck him as unusual. A sociopathic maniac, sure, but never inhuman. Just flawed, like the rest of them.

If his wings were out, Steve knows Billy would preen. Without them, Billy ducks his head, hands in his lap. “Do you wanna stay the night?” he asks, meeting Steve’s gaze. He tenses when Steve reaches out, but softens when the blow doesn’t land. Steve wraps his hand around Billy’s shoulder, more for confirmation than anything. They hugged, on the beach, but this is different. Billy won’t hurt him here, or at least Steve hopes he won’t, and all Steve wants is to see him again, to feel his warmth one last time.

Seven years is a long time, but not long enough to forget.

“Yeah,” Steve decides. Driving back to his hotel in the middle of rush hour is probably ill-advised, and Billy’s bed is inviting, big enough for two. “I’m staying in… I don’t know where. There’s an airport, and a motel with a surfboard for a sign—”

“Safari,” Billy laughs. His eyes shine, and not just from the moonlight streaming in. “Burbank, yeah. My mom’s in Glendale. I bussed at Denny’s for a year or two before I moved here.”

“It’s nice,” Steve decides, to Billy’s nod. Looking at the empty half of the bed, fresh heat floods his face. “I could sleep on the couch, if—”

“Here’s fine,” Billy says in haste. His expression doesn’t change, at least not like Steve anticipated. Instead, he pats the mattress, brows lifted. “Or you can sleep with Jaime. Your choice.”

“Jaime?” Steve snorts. “You named the cat Jaime?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you got a problem with it? ‘Cause I’m not above putting you out on your ass.”

“No, no, it’s—it’s fine.” Laughing probably isn’t the best idea, but Billy doesn’t chastise him for it, just slides back under the sheets, and waits.

In the morning, long after the sun has risen, Steve wakes to find the bed empty, the bedding gone cold. Even then, he doesn't feel so alone, not anymore.

-+-

Weekends are busier than Billy would like sometimes. Tourists make their way from Los Angeles proper into town, flooding the beaches with their bicycles and coolers and dogs. Children come inside to play with the rocks, never putting them back in the right bin. Locals talk about how much cheaper the shirts are here than down the street, but never buy anything. He makes most of his money from snowbirds and the occasional Floridian, and a few tourists from Japan with Kodaks and Minoltas strapped around their necks.

He makes a good living, or as much as he can, given just what he hocks. Adding ‘psychic’ to his resume doesn’t hurt either. With his smile, he can charm just about anyone out of their money.

At some point overnight, fog rolled in, bathing the beach in an opaque blanket of white. Nothing unusual, unfortunately. Another hour or so, and the sun will be back, and Billy can step outside, breathe in something other than the noxious combination of incense and scented candles. The only place that doesn’t reek is the back, vented by a box fan sitting in front of one of two windows. If possible, Billy would spend all day in there, or on the beach.

But customers always come first, especially boys—no, a man now—like Steve Harrington.

For the second day in a row, Steve stands in the entrance of his shop, hair disheveled and sweatshirt half hanging off him, like he just rolled out of bed. _His bed_ , Billy reminds himself. _Steve slept in my bed_. “Thought you’d run off,” Billy says, sidling forward with a sway to his step. His bangles clink. Steve watches him, hands on his hips. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?”

“You’re the one who asked me to stay the night,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

That, Billy can’t deny. A moment of weakness, but if he had to admit to it, the last time he slept for more than four hours was maybe five, six years ago, when the wings were new and he took every opportunity he had to sleep. Supposedly, according to his physicians, his body was struggling to rid itself of whatever toxic substance flowed through his veins, and being unconscious allowed additional time to heal. Or, so the explanation went. Either way, whatever time Billy wasn’t working, he spent passed out in his mother’s guest room.

No one called asking questions. No one cared.

No one, apparently, except Steve.

“So you went to my funeral?” Billy asks, rounding his desk. Sitting back in his leather chair, he props his bare feet up, wiggling his toes. His attempt at humor sours the more he thinks about it, the more he watches Steve’s expression fall. “How was it?”

Steve sighs, long and low, exhausting just to listen to. “Quiet,” he says. “Max couldn’t stop crying. Your dad didn’t show, but your stepmom was there. El came.” He stands before the desk, head bowed. “I brought flowers.”

A decade ago, Billy might have laughed. Might have even cracked a joke, something along the lines of, ‘ _Aren’t you sweet_?’ Now, Billy just sits there, hating himself for asking. Just another thing to add to his list of regrets, that he never told Max he was still kicking. “Did they even have a body?”

Steve shakes his head. “City council put up a memorial to the victims of the fire.” He stops, laughs, his voice hollow. “It’s a total conspiracy, man. The Army burned down the mall and claimed it was some underground gas explosion. Someone said they saw you run into the mall, and then the place went up, and… You’re a hero, Billy. I took a picture, here, look,” and Steve pulls his wallet out of his pants pocket, fishing for a photograph. Several fall out of his billfold, spilling onto the floor, and without thinking, Steve grabs them and shoves them onto the desk.

All two-by-three inch prints, of Steve’s friends, of the girl Billy recognizes from that ice cream shop in the mall, of Nancy and the Byers kid, of people he can’t put a name to the face. One of them is of Billy, a photo taken outside of that cheesy winter dance, just a few weeks after he tried to put his fist through Steve’s face. Jonathan took that one, of them arm in arm, still with bruises and split lips and looking every bit as annoyed with each other as they were.

Out of all of them, that photo is the most worn, with crumpled edges and a rip in the corner. “Here,” Steve says, finally, and hands Billy the photo before shoving the rest of them back in his wallet. Squinting, he makes out an obelisk in the middle of a moderately used cemetery, with an inscription on the base, just large enough for him to read— _Erected in Memory of Those Lost at Starcourt Mall._ “All the names are on there, and you’re”—Steve points to the top—“here. Thought it was weird at first, I mean—”

“Stop.” Billy stands, lifts his hand. Steve snaps his jaw shut, something soft and terrified crossing his eyes. “Don’t put me on a pedestal just because I did something stupid.”

“You’re not stupid—” Steve starts, but Billy finishes, a hand to Steve’s chest.

Maybe too gently, Billy pushes Steve backward and sits atop the desk. He crosses his ankles, knuckles white where he grips the edge. “I’m not a hero,” he says, low and stern enough that Steve pays attention. “You barely know me, Harrington. For all you know, I’m just the guy that tried to rearrange your face. I fucking terrorized that town, slept with everyone I could get my hands on, got arrested more times than I can count, and you think those are defining qualities?”

“But you got better,” Steve defends, arms crossed. Billy raises a brow. “Or you were at least trying. You were even getting along with Max, which said something.”

 _Max_. Somehow, she always weaseled her way into his thoughts, even years after the fact. “I’m not a good person,” Billy says, and fists Steve’s shirt, dragging him into the space between his spread knees. “I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. I’m no hero, I just did what I had to do, and all it did was get me killed. And you know what?” He tugs Steve closer, close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. “It’s better this way. Everyone moved on without me, and it’s… It’s good, Harrington. I’m good being dead. Probably better than the real thing, right?”

For a long few seconds, Steve doesn’t say anything. Desperately, Billy wishes he would do something other than blink, than fidget. “Nobody wanted you dead,” Steve says, looking to the floor. “You were an ass, yeah, but no one wanted you gone. Was it really that bad, that you’d wanna…”

“That I’d wanna kill myself?”

Honestly, Billy doesn’t know. In California, it rarely crossed his mind. In Hawkins, he swears, sometimes Neil would’ve rather had a dead son than a queer one. The longer he sits there, the deeper Steve’s frown grows; never once does he reach out to touch, not like Billy touches him, with his knees and his hands. Steve still bears the chill of Indiana winter—Billy hasn’t been cold since he left.

Shrugging, Billy rakes his fingers through his hair. Longer now, softer. Brighter with the sun. “I’m messed up, man. Was back then, still am now. And you being here just… reminds me.” _Of what I never got_ , he aches to say.

Somehow, Steve understands. “I can leave,” he says, just in time for Billy’s heart to pound. _No, no, no_. Steve’s expression grows impossibly dimmer, and Billy swears he can see tears in his eyes. “If I’m bothering you, I can—”

From firsthand experience, Billy knows what adrenaline can do to a body. Numerous nights, he’s spent awake with his blood on fire, anticipation burning him alive, and afterward, he would sleep like the dead, so gone that the stereo couldn’t wake him, nor Max’s futile attempts to shake him awake. Yanking Steve down by his hair might be one of the rasher decisions he’s made in the last few months, but he goes through with it anyway, if only to hear the noise Steve makes, like he’s drowning, like he’s never been kissed.

And what shocks him more, is that Steve doesn’t jerk away, nor does he start throwing around words. Rather, Steve touches him with a tentative palm to Billy’s jaw and perfects the angle, lips melding against his own.

It’s better than Billy imagined—this might as well be heaven, with Steve pressed up against him, crowding him into the desk. A stack of tarot cards clatters to the floor; someone flies past on a bicycle. Awareness floods Billy faster than he appreciates, and with shaking fingers, he pushes Steve’s chest, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

Steve stares at him, lips slick and cheeks heated. Billy can’t look away. “I got a whole list of regrets,” Billy manages, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “And one of them is that I never did that.”

It takes a moment, but Steve breaks into a grin, his laughter filling the empty corners of the shop. “You could’ve done that sooner,” he says. Playfully, he ruffles Billy’s hair, and Billy doesn’t bother to fight him.

Starcourt took the fight out of him, all those years ago. But maybe, if Steve sticks around for a few days, he can start to feel it again.

-+-

Billy takes the day off. Supposedly, because he hasn’t in a few months, but Steve suspects it’s because he needs air, or just wants to get away. Billy drives them about an hour north, taking the scenic route on Route 1 through Malibu, then to a beach perched beneath a massive rock.

Weekdays, according to Billy, are relatively dull, giving the locals time to enjoy the surf. Sitting there with his feet in the sand, Steve can see why—no one is here, just the two of them and the gulls, and a few dolphins swimming not far off from shore. Once, Steve swears he spots a whale breaching.

“So, Cornell,” Billy says, offhand. Sprawled out on a towel, he lays with his hands behind his head, taking in the sun.

The few times Steve saw him shirtless, it was always in the dark, not in broad daylight. Billy’s scars have mostly silvered right now, spreading across his ribs like veins; his sternum bears the worst of the abuse, hollowed in the center where it managed to heal on its own. A few of his fingers are bent when at rest, and pinpricks mar the top of his hands, from claws and teeth and God knows what else the Mind Flayer threw at him. How he managed to walk out of there with his heart still beating is a question Steve doesn’t want answered.

The gate is closed—has been for years, and all is right with the world.

Until now.

“It’s Robin’s,” Steve says after a while, too wrapped up in looking at Billy to come up with complete sentences. “She got it for me on campus, because I never applied anywhere and she thought it’d help me pick up chicks.”

Billy snorts, tips his sunglasses back. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Not very well,” Steve chuckles. “She got a degree in film studies and she’s been working out here for a few years. She’s trying to become a director.”

“More power to her,” Billy says. Bending his knees, he digs his heels into the sand. “You really never went to college?”

Steve shakes his head, suddenly self-conscious. Sweat beads at his hairline the longer he sits there fully dressed, the sun beating down. Eventually he strips the sweatshirt off and pillows it behind his head, giving in. Billy whistles, then laughs. _I need a tan anyway_. “My dad got me a job and I took it. Couldn’t stand being in Hawkins anymore, and Chicago was the next best bet. Parents sold their house and I got an apartment, and I’ve been up there ever since.” He sniffles. “It’s lonely.” _I’m lonely_.

Billy makes a noncommittal noise, one that sounds oddly sympathetic. Crashing waves fill the silence; a gull circles overhead, probably looking for food. “I do palm reading,” he says, straightening his legs. Sand spills into the hems of his pant legs; he doesn’t seem to mind. “And cards. Figure I can put this charm to good use, tell some girls how their boyfriends are wildly in love with them and all that. Everyone’s into that fortune teller bullshit, and if they really wanted, I could spill the beans about how Jason’s been boning her best friend for the past month, or how her parents aren’t really planning to get back together.”

Blinking, Steve turns his head. “What, you can actually—You’re not a fraud?”

“Hell no,” Billy laughs. “Wings aren’t just the only thing I’ve got. I fixed your face, for one.” Limply, he points at Steve’s cheek without looking. “And I can read intentions. Like, right now?” Sitting up, Billy lowers his sunglasses, the heat in his eyes downright sultry. “How long’ve you been watching me, baby?”

 _Oh fuck_. “What—” Steve sputters, then launches up, sand clinging to his back. “I haven’t—dude, you can’t just—”

“C’mon,” Billy huffs, then tilts his head, throat bared. The sudden urge to lick the sweat from his skin sits sentient in Steve’s chest. “You kissed me back, I know you’ve been hiding something in that head of yours, Harrington. Saw the pictures in your wallet.”

Steve lets out a long, low “ _Fuck_ ” before slumping back onto the beach. “You weren’t supposed to…” Supposed to what? Find out that some nights, Steve just sat in bed staring at that one photo of the two of them? That some nights, he wished that their relationship could’ve gone differently? If they met sometime before the party, if Steve had happened upon their moving van one afternoon, if they had been just downright civil to each other, then maybe they could’ve avoided blows, could’ve worked together?

Maybe Billy would’ve lived.

The soft chill of feathers creeps across Steve’s back, stroking up his spine. Steve looks at Billy, frantic, only to see him staring out into the ocean, his wings spread. He looks almost… angelic here, all golden skin and curls, freckles peppering every inch of flesh, blue eyes alight in the sun. His scars tell a different story, of a past both of them would like to forget, of events neither of them should’ve experienced.

If anything, Billy deserves to be happy, with or without Steve. And here, on this beach, Steve wonders if Billy finally is.

Steeling his nerves, Steve stands and walks toward the water. Billy follows after, wings loosely hanging behind his back, dragging through the sand. “I wanted to… I wished I knew you better than I did,” Steve says. The surf washes around his feet, cold. “We were teammates for a whole year, and after… that whole thing, we never talked. And some nights when I couldn't sleep, I parked outside your house—”

“You what?” Billy asks, not sounding at all angry about it.

“I was trying to psych myself up, okay?” Turning, Steve steps further into the ocean, walking backwards. Water soaks his jeans up to the knees. “I wanted to like, throw rocks at your window or some shit. ‘Cause I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and what you were doing, and I just… I wanted to know you, okay? But you never even looked at me, and that night in Cincinnati—”

“God, you still remember that?” Billy huffs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Of course Steve remembers Cincinnati. That was the only away game where they were assigned to the same room, left to share the one single bed in the entire motel. In the middle of the night, Steve woke to Billy staring right at him, hair in his face and looking exhausted, but at the same time enamored. Like Steve was his sun. That look faded mere seconds later, but Steve saw it all, and held Billy’s hand when he tried to turn away. A peace offering.

Billy never let go.

“I started thinking we could’ve… Maybe we could’ve tried,” Steve says with a shrug. Visibly, Billy’s wings slump. “And I wanted to, to try, but shit just… With graduation and jobs and…” He shakes his head, looks past the water’s surface to find shells gathering around his toes. “It hurt like shit, man, watching you die. ‘Cause all I could think about were the what ifs. What if we actually talked, what if we got along?”

“It still would’ve ended the same,” Billy says, lacking heat. He crosses his arms, covering the worst of his scars. “No matter what we did, I still would’ve ended up on that floor, and you would’ve watched me die—”

“But it didn't have to be that way!” Steve rushes forward and takes Billy by the shoulders. “Who knows how it could’ve ended up? Hell, maybe if it happened a day later—”

“A day later, and I would’ve been the laughing stock of the town.” Billy’s wings seize, feathers poised for a fight. Taking Steve’s wrists, Billy yanks them away, then shoves Steve backward into a wave. “All this? Happened the day I turned eighteen. That day.”

“Shit,” Steve hisses—

But Billy barrels on. “I’d felt it coming for weeks, I knew the signs, but no one in town had any answers. I had _no one_ , Harrington, and you know what would’ve happened if my old man found out?” He laughs, hollow and bitter. “He would’ve taken the handsaw to me. You don’t know.” Another step. A wave shoves Steve forward, bringing them chest to chest. “You’re not the one that got… ravaged by that thing. You had a choice in what happened, I didn't. Nothing you did could’ve saved me, and you just…

“You gotta let that go.” Stepping away, Billy heads back to shore. “You should’ve let me go—”

Steve grabs Billy by the wing, the first thing he can think to grab. _Soft_ , is his first thought, followed by _oh shit_. Billy stops, tensing. “It wasn’t just a crush, Billy,” he says, tongue thick in his mouth. “I think I—I actually loved you, or something. So forgive me if I thought I had a chance.”

Shoulders squared, Billy looks straight ahead. “You had your chance,” he huffs, and pulls away. “I think it’s time you go back home, yeah?”

Steve lets his hand drop, his heart falling right along with it. _It shouldn't hurt this bad_. “Yeah,” he agrees, ignoring the tears flooding his eyes. “Yeah, probably.”

 _It’s all bullshit anyway_.

-+-

After he drops Steve off in Venice, Billy heads back out onto the road, traveling north for as long as he can stand. He ends up somewhere south of Pismo Beach, parked as close to the beach as he can get without being towed. For a while, he leans against the side of his Sunbird convertible, watching children play in the surf and teenagers wading a ways off, waiting for the perfect break. School must have let out for the holidays.

At one point in his life, that was him, waiting for the last bell of the day before hopping in the car and heading west, until he hit the coast. It all feels so different now, like that part of him never existed, was beaten out of him once his mom left. Watching them, Billy wishes he could feel that innocent again, without the weight of Hawkins bearing down on him.

Admitting he hasn’t thought about it would be a lie. Admitting he never thought about Steve would be blasphemy, a greater sin than sin itself. He knees give out. For a while, Billy sits with his back to the front wheel, simply breathing.

And it hurts. Existing hurts, knowing what he left behind. Max is probably still back there, but so was Steve. Steve, who apparently longed for him in the aftermath, who Billy always pined for. In his fantasies, he always imagined Steve at his side, in the passenger seat of the Camaro while they drove off into the sunset. Imagined going to college together, getting an apartment, even if they were just friends.

Someone to lean on—that, Billy wanted more than anything.

Instead, he died alone and afraid, and abandoned every opportunity he might’ve had.

Crying comes easier nowadays, without his father’s threats weighing him down. In the shadow of his wings and under the setting sun, Billy presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose and sobs, chest heaving with every breath. His body aches—his heart pounds, broken, beating solely to keep him alive.

Because at one point, Billy wanted the same thing. Wanted to touch Steve, wanted to keep him close, wanted to know everything he could about him. But he kept his distance, just like Max told him, and isolated himself, cut himself off from the rest of the world. Girls hung around for maybe a day or two but saw through the façade. His teammates invited him to parties but never asked him to hang out after practice.

Some days, it felt like Steve was the only one who looked at him.

“Fuck,” Billy says through the tears, then sucks in a breath, hating how his lungs burn. Some days, he wishes he could still smoke, just to take the edge off. Nicotine was a crutch, as well as the alcohol and whatever prescriptions he could get his hands on. He craves it more than ever, wishes he could numb his senses until the world stopped.

Above it all, he wishes that the damn monster would’ve killed him. At least then, he wouldn't hurt so bad.

-+-

Someone knocks.

Not a gentle knock, but a banging so loud that Steve jolts awake, previously lost in rem, and springs off the mattress, only to collapse onto the carpet, legs still asleep. In the dark of the room, the television glows, snow cluttering the screen. Thankfully, he turned the volume down before he passed out; waking up to screeching static would only compound the terror currently seizing his chest. Pale moonlight streams through the sheer curtains, replacing the sun that followed him all the way to Burbank.

Lying on the floor, Steve would give his left lung for daylight.

The noise stops after a long few seconds, the room once again falling into silence. Steve breathes in the lull, shallow and quick; his heart pounds, stomach threatening to rise, and only by a miracle does he manage not to hurl. A pipe rattles from the neighbor’s shower, cars pass on the street down below. Any other time, and Steve might climb back into bed and blame it on the head trauma, his brain still playing tricks on him.

But the noise starts again, quieter this time, but ramping up when no one answers. “Open the door,” someone says—someone eerily familiar, and someone Steve has no intentions of seeing again. Billy told him to move on. That’s what Steve intends to do, but apparently, Billy has other plans. “Open the fucking door, Harrington, I know you’re in here.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve grunts.

Heart pounding, he makes his way to the feet and crosses the room, all against his better judgment. He’s supposed to move on—Billy isn’t supposed to be here, but he is, on the other side of the door. Steve watches him through the peephole, dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, tank top tucked into his pants. Aside from the scarring and the exhaustion living in his eyes, he looks like he hasn’t aged a day. Or, at least, hasn’t changed his wardrobe.

Technically, he could just leave Billy out there. _Should_ leave him in the hallway, but he can’t risk pissing off every other person on the floor, and in the past, Billy always had tendency to get loud when he didn't get his way. “Give me one reason why I should let you in,” Steve demands. Through the peephole, Billy throws his head back, his sigh audible. “I’m counting to five, then I’m calling the—”

“Christ, you’re annoying,” Billy huffs, a hand in his hair. “Just—let me in. I fucked up, alright? That what you wanna hear?”

“Yes,” Steve grunts. He crosses his arms. “What else?”

Billy lets out a groan and taps his heel into the carpet. Stomps, more likely. “I’m sorry,” he says, strained. “I’m—You know what?” He turns, and Steve’s heart races, “I’m done with this, I don’t need to prove—”

Steve catches him before he can leave, slinging the door open and grabbing Billy by the wrist. Barely, Billy fights back, most of his efforts just for show. Who he’s trying to impress, Steve has no clue; not like anyone in the hallway is watching anyway, but it might wound Billy’s pride if he didn't try. The minute Steve closes the door, though, Billy crowds him against it, all lips and hands and heat, sweeping the breath from Steve’s lungs.

Billy’s presence has always been intoxicating, but this is different, infuriating with his intensity, like he’s trying to prove a point. All Steve can do is hold on, clinging to Billy by the hair while Billy slams him into every surface imaginable—walls, the dresser, the television, once—in his hunt for the mattress. Steve ends up on his back while Billy crawls over him, nipping at his lower lip hard enough to bruise, all while Steve gives back as well as he can, seven years of longing pouring free with each kiss.

Everything about it feels wrong, like Billy’s heart isn’t in it. And if the tears Steve feels on his cheeks are any indication, Billy would probably rather be doing anything other than this.

“Billy,” Steve says—chokes out, really—and pushes Billy’s shoulder, to no avail. “Billy, look at me, c’mon—”

“Shut up,” Billy huffs, ragged. Shivers wrack his body, hands trembling where they hold Steve down. “Shut up, just let me—”

“Stop, stop.” Exhausted as he is, Steve manages to roll Billy off onto the other side of the mattress; Billy struggles even after Steve straddles him, pinning his wrists into the bedding. “Billy, look at me,” he says, soft, strokes his fingers over Billy’s cheek. Billy refuses to open his eyes, his brow furrowed. He swallows, chest spasming; Steve’s heart breaks just looking at him. “Why’re you here, man?”

Shuddering, Billy sucks in a breath; tears fall anyway, spilling from the corners of his eyes. “I fucked up,” he says. “I’m scared, that what you want? First you walk into my shop, then you let me punch your pretty face—”

“I didn’t let you,” Steve starts, but Billy plows on.

“—and you tell me you loved me. Like, actually loved me, probably dotted your fuckin’ I’s with hearts and shit—”

Steve covers Billy’s mouth with his palm, ignoring just how wet his tongue is when he licks it. “Just shut up for two seconds, will you?” he asks as politely as he can. Billy, for once, listens. “Why’s this got you so wired?”

Slowly, Steve removes his hand, thumbs away the tears gathering in the crease of Billy’s nose. “No one’s ever told me that,” Billy admits, slow, like he’s speaking another language. “I’m not someone that can be… loved, or whatever bullshit. I mean, have you met me?”

“Yeah.” Steve palms Billy’s cheek, and Billy falls into him, lips pressed to the heel of his hand. “And I mean, you were a total asshole, but your heart was in the right place. Sometimes.”

“Not a lot of the time,” Billy rebuts.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You had your reasons, I guess. But Max loved you, man. Still does, too. I’ve gotten letters from her, just her telling me about you, and there’s tear stains all over them, and all of it just made me love you more—”

“Stop—Stop saying that,” Billy begs, half-hysteric. “Like you—”

“Billy, I never stopped.” Steve holds his breath. Billy stills, eyes wide and terrified. “I love you, okay? I don’t know why, but I love you, and I’ve always been in love with you. So just… stop fighting it, okay? Stop fighting me.”

Looking down, Steve expects to see Billy scowling at him, or ready to spit whatever slur he can come up with—what he finds is Billy turning away, lip between his teeth, on the verge of a sob. Touching him makes it worse; dragging him into an awkward hug finally breaks him, and Billy weeps, soundless and broken, into Steve’s nightshirt. Nails rake down Steve’s back, leaving stinging trails behind.

And Steve bears it, holds onto Billy through the worst of it, the name calling and the obvious lies, all of it just words, idle threats in an attempt to push Steve away. He won’t leave, though—now, Steve never wants to let him go.

-+-

A while after the sun rises, Billy stirs, a warm blanket and even hotter limbs keeping him still. Hot breath graces his lips, even and steady; he copies the rhythm, willing his heart calm. Steve is still here—not that Billy thought Steve would leave his own hotel room, but the thought crossed his mind once or twice in the night, whether or not Steve would leave him without saying goodbye. The rest of his stuff is here, though—and Steve clings to him, their legs twined, an arm draped over Billy’s waist.

It’s comfortable—and Billy’s heart jackrabbits.

Steve is beautiful in his sleep, despite the drool clinging to the corner of his lips. Carefully, Billy traces his thumb over the soft curve of Steve’s cheek, swipes away the strand of hair draped over his eyes. All these years, and he never cut it all off; at most, he keeps it shorter and swept back, but in his sleep, it hangs limp.

Gradually, Steve wakes, his eyelids fluttering in the light. “Shit,” he curses, rubs an eyelid. “Time is it?”

“Fuck if I know,” Billy says, aiming for gruff. Squinting, he wrenches from Steve’s grasp and rolls onto his back, eyeing analog clock on the nightstand. 8:43—late. “Hope you didn't have any morning appointments,” he groans and palms his eyes until he sees stars.

“My last seminar is at noon,” Steve yawns, stretches his arms above his head.

Billy can’t help but kiss him then, ignoring the fact that Steve tastes like morning breath, and Steve kisses back, this time in full. Gentle, imploring fingers trail up Billy’s bare spine, then between his shoulders, where the slits of his wings reside. “When’s your flight?” Billy asks, in lieu of _when are you leaving me_?

To that, Steve groans. “Ten. I’m taking the red-eye back, and I gotta take a taxi to the airport, and—”

“I’ll drive you,” Billy offers, blasé. Steve can take it or leave it. Billy has nothing better to do, anyway; at some point, he needs to drive back to Venice and actually do his job, but staying in bed with Steve ultimately wins out, especially when Steve palms his cheek, thumb pressed to the curve of Billy’s lips. Steve’s smile slowly melts to a frown, tension furrowing his brow. “What’s crawled up your ass today?”

“Jesus,” Steve says, then laughs, soft as anything. “It’s just… I still don't know why you came.”

Billy blinks, spreads his fingers out atop Steve’s pillow. “I thought I made that clear.”

“No, no, you did, but…” Shaking his head, Steve drops his hand. “You told me to move on, and I swear I was gonna. My boss’s been trying to set me up with her sister for weeks—”

“Don’t do it.” He kisses Steve’s cheek before he can fight back, then his jaw. Steve melts, a sigh escaping his lips. “Don’t do it. Don’t…” As much as Billy wants it to, this will never work. Steve lives in Chicago now, probably has a cushy job with a six-figure income, and Billy sells rocks and barely scrapes by. California is a three day drive, and Billy still can’t shake his fear of flight, no matter how often he watches the planes take off at LAX.

This won’t work—but by God, he wants to try.

“Probably stupid,” Steve says, stroking through Billy’s hair, “but you could come with me.”

Billy shakes his head. “This is my home. Always been. My balls’ll fall off if I have to suffer through another winter.”

Steve groans, eyes rolled back. “Fuck, it was snowing when I left. Can I just stay here?”

 _You could_ , Billy aches to say. _You could live with me_. Leaning down for a kiss, he sighs against Steve’s lips. “It’s funny,” he whispers, “dying hurt less than this.”

“Who knew you were a big sap,” Steve says with mirth, but his face falls. “Feel like I’m dreaming. Like this is another nightmare, and something’s gonna jump out of the closet and rip my face off.”

“Hope not,” Billy mumbles, then kisses Steve’s throat. Steve tugs his hair by the root, and Billy sucks in a breath. “Kinda like your face just like it is.”

Steve smooths down Billy’s hair with a quiet smile. Billy ducks his head, mouthing the curve of Steve’s throat. “Yeah, kinda like yours too.”

Briefly, Steve strokes Billy’s nape before he drifts south, fingertips dancing down his spine, to where they linger over the small of his back. There’s a question there, one Steve doesn’t appear willing to voice, but Billy hears it all the same; heat paints his cheeks, and Billy hides his face, just breathes. “I haven’t been able to get it up in a while,” he admits, shamefaced. “Ever since. Doc says it’s the PTSD or some shit, said I need to clear my mind, but you know how hard it is to do that? But hey, if you wanna give it a try, I’m all game.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, a little too enthusiastically. “I’ve—had some practice.”

Billy lifts a brow. _Interesting_. “Oh, have you now? Never would’ve pegged you for craving dick, Harrington.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve wiggles his way out from under Billy and strips the blankets from the bed. “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up, but it’s one of the few things I’m good at. Turns out, I excel at statistics and head, who would’ve guessed?”

“Not me,” Billy snorts.

There’s something tentative about Steve’s touch, Billy notices, like Steve isn’t quite sure he can touch without consequences, like he isn’t quite sure this is real. Gently, lips press against his own, tongue just the barest edge of teasing, coaxing Billy’s mouth open; all the while, a hand skates down his chest, through the sparse hairs between his pecs, below his navel. How they lost their clothes overnight, Billy isn’t quite sure, but they both ended up in their briefs along the way, skin to skin.

Now, it gives Steve more of an opportunity to take, and Billy is more than happy to let him have whatever he wants. The minute Steve gets a hand on his cock, Billy lets out a breath, tangling his fingers in Steve’s hair. It feels good—should feel better, but his cock hasn’t exactly agreed with him for the better half of a decade, and after a while, he gave up trying. Steve makes it his life’s mission to get him hard, his stroke deft and sure despite Billy’s cock’s apparent disinterest.

It’s nice, though, just to be held, to feel like someone actually cares about him. And, according to Steve’s heartfelt confessions, he does—and Billy still doesn’t believe him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any condoms?” Steve asks after a while, spit-slick lips sucking kisses to his neck. “Not that I think you’re like, gross or anything—”

“In my jeans, pretty boy,” Billy hums. Steve’s weight leaves the bed in haste, and Billy tugs off his briefs in the meantime, sprawling out on the mattress. “So who’s the first guy you sucked off?”

Steve sputters from the floor; a packet flies at Billy’s head, nearly missing the bed entirely. “You remember David, played quarterback before he broke his foot?”

God, did he. The first time Billy saw him, he _hated_ him, probably more than anyone else at first glance, all broad shoulders and a square jaw, hair buzzed short. “Damn,” he laughs, reaches down to palm his soft dick. “You had your choice of any dude, and you picked the biggest douchebag in school?”

“In my defense, I was drunk,” Steve points out before getting to his feet. He makes his way between Billy’s bent knees and just sits there for a moment, visibly weighing his options. Billy didn't bring lube, and condoms only have so much, and what’s the use if Steve can’t get him hard anyway? Dry fingers sting like a bitch. “You’d think hotels would have gift shops or something downstairs, because I—”

“Just, shut up, for a minute.” Red-faced and shaking, Billy sucks in a breath, fights the heat burning across his body. No one has ever touched his wings like that before, especially… _Especially_. “I’m only gonna say this once,” he says and sits up, rolling his shoulders. His wings spill free with barely a thought, primaries scraping the floor. “I got these—things here, supposed to use them for grooming or whatever,” Billy stops to demonstrate by reaching into the secondaries closest to his body, exposing two small nubs. Steve touches it, tentative and unsure, and grimaces when his fingers come away slick and smelling of musk. “Works better than lube, trust me.”

“I have so, so many questions,” Steve says, awed, rubbing his fingers together. “Like, you would not believe how many.”

“And I probably got answers,” Billy hums and falls back into the bedding. His wings twitch, then lie flat, positioned a little more open and a lot more vulnerable. “C’mon, show me if you’re still the king, huh?”

Steve shakes his head, but otherwise complies. “Still on that,” he says, mostly to himself, before stroking through Billy’s feathers. A shiver rips through his wing; Billy gasps, clenching his fists. Steve freezes. “Is that bad, or—”

“No, no, ‘s good,” Billy manages, fists himself just to see if anything happens. Nothing— _damn_. “ _Fuck_ , don’t gotta tease me like that.”

A devilish smirk crosses Steve’s lips. That’s all the warning Billy lets before Steve sinks his fingers in, rubbing those two nubs—glands, his mother called them, back when she explained just what wings meant and how they worked—all while Billy thrashes and moans, panting into Steve’s mouth. “There you go,” Steve says and pulls free, leaving Billy’s wing a shuddering wreck, along with the rest of him. “So you’re sure this works?”

“Pretty damn sure,” Billy wheezes, bends his knees.

Steve pins him open, hands kneading the meat of his thighs. Somehow, this feels even more intimate, with Steve just looking at him, pressing his lips to Billy’s stomach and trailing to the vee of his hips. Limp, his cock rests against his belly, and Steve mouths at it, uncaring of how soft it is or how it never even twitches when he sucks the head into his mouth. A slick, probing finger strokes between his cheeks, pushing in to the knuckle and curling—

And Billy’s wings slam into the mattress, hips lifting. That—that’s a new one. Steve holds him down with his palm and takes Billy to the back of his throat, gradually working him with both his fingers and his mouth. In the quiet of the room, Billy can’t be bothered with the noises Steve makes, nor does Billy bother to hold back his moans, his breaths little more than gasps. A second finger joins, sliding in deep and angled just where he needs it. His foot slips—his cock fills.

“Fuck,” Billy manages, near-hysteric. Grabbing for Steve’s hair, he tugs Steve into a kiss and clenches around Steve’s fingers. “ _Fuck_ , look what you’re doin’ to me, babe.”

“There’s this thing, kinda like the g-spot in dudes,” Steve explains and continues his exploration, sucking purpled marks to Billy’s neck. Billy already knows, has tried fingering himself on numerous occasions, but maybe he just had the angle wrong, or maybe it just wasn’t _Steve_. He gets a hand around himself, groaning when he feels his cock thicken, for the first time in months, maybe even years, if he’s really counting. “How’s that?”

“Pretty _damn_ good,” Billy groans. Better than good—better than everything. Given the chance, and he would keep Steve here, in this moment, just to feel alive again.

Steve smirks against his ear and pulls his fingers free, much to Billy’s lament. Though, the hand in his wings makes up for it. “Can I—can I fuck you? I’ll get you off, I promise—”

“There you go, asking stupid questions,” Billy laughs. Tugging Steve into a kiss, he grabs for the condom and shoves it into Steve’s hand. “Get in me before it goes down, or I swear—”

Steve doesn’t give him a chance to finish, just swallows his words in another kiss. Reluctantly, Steve breaks away to strip his briefs off, and Billy watches his cock spring free, thick and veiny and so different from what he remembers, but still undeniably Steve. Though, Steve doesn't give him the satisfaction of touching or even looking—he just plows on ahead, three fingers deep in Billy’s ass and Billy’s cock down his throat, like he’s never tasted cock in his life.

“Always—always dreamt about you,” Billy babbles, both hands in Steve’s hair while Steve fucks him with a fourth, quick and efficient and doing everything in his power to keep Billy hard. “Remembered that cock in the showers, always wanted to get my mouth on it. Always pegged you as straight, though, never thought you’d be the one on your knees.”

In retaliation, Steve reaches up to pinch Billy’s nipple. If the rooms weren’t so close one another—he can hear the shower running in the room next door—he might scream. “What’s the saying, don’t judge a book? I couldn’t exactly broadcast it to every guy in town, y’know.”

Right. Reason why Billy didn’t try dating in the first place, and the entire reason they ended up in Hawkins to start with. Because no matter how many women he brought to bed or kissed, he never could shake the sourness in his gut that it wasn’t what he wanted. And what he wanted, he couldn’t have.

But he can have it here, right now, with Steve ripping open the condom wrapper with his teeth and sliding it on. This part, Billy thinks, has always been awkward, where his partner has to decide where they want him—normally on his stomach, because the angle is better and sometimes, he suspects, straight guys like to pretend they’re not fucking ass if they can’t see his face. Rather than flip him over, Steve keeps him on his back and hoists a leg high, Billy’s knee propped over his shoulder, before sliding in, his girth almost unbearable.

If Billy had to describe one of Steve’s most identifiable attributes, it’s patience. Probably a learned behavior, because years ago, Steve was always headstrong, resilient, drove an ugly tan monstrosity into the quarter panel of his Camaro just to keep his friends safe. Here, Steve waits, tongue between his teeth while Billy grips the bedspread, panting wildly. Through it all, he manages to stay hard, the head of Steve’s cock pressing right against his prostate until it slips past, and Steve is _deep_ , deeper than Billy ever thought he’d be.

His cock twitches the moment Steve bottoms out, precome spilling thick onto his stomach. Meanwhile, he drags Steve in for a kiss, uncaring of the strain in his thigh or how his wings shudder, especially when Steve grabs a fistful of feathers. That alone almost topples him over the edge. “I’m gonna try something,” Steve mutters, breathless, and waits for Billy to nod. “If I’m gonna get a cramp, might as well not half-ass it, right?”

“What,” Billy starts to say, but stops when he feels one of Steve’s fingers push in alongside his cock, opening him wider and pressing, _pushing_ , until tears spring to Billy’s eyes. “Oh _fuck_ —”

And Steve fucks him like that, slow and methodical, middle finger curled while he pulls out and fucks back in, setting a brutal pace that never quite leaves him empty. Billy grips the pillow above his head with one hand while he strips his cock with the other, riding Steve’s pace with practiced ease. The fact that Steve is looking out for him, that Steve is taking the time to get him off, floors him, sends a rush of heat to his cock when Steve slaps a hand into his wing and holds it down, sinking his fingers in.

The sensation, coupled with the pressure to his prostate and the cock splitting him wide, sends Billy over the edge, and Billy throws his head back, spine arched while he spills into his fist, up his stomach in unrelenting bliss. Steve fucks him through the claustrophobia, through the moans and the eventual shaking of limbs, and only pulls his finger free when he comes, his brow pinched and mouth agape, looking stupidly beautiful while he empties his load into the condom.

Sweat beads from Billy’s temple as he winds down, his entire body oversensitive, and not just from Steve petting through his wings. After a while, Steve pulls out and tosses the condom into the trash can by the dresser; Billy draws him into a frantic embrace once he returns, smothering him in his wings, all while Steve laughs and kisses whatever he can reach: Billy’s nose, his cheek, the bolt of his jaw.

Billy’s lips, he saves for last, and Billy savors it, dovetailing their legs together, holding Steve close. “Don’t want you to go back,” Billy says, hiding his face in Steve’s throat.

“I have to,” Steve says, wet in his throat. If he starts crying—“I just got you back, and now I have to… Fuck, I didn’t think it’d hurt this bad.”

Billy shushes him with a kiss, thumbs away the tears gathering in the crease of his eye. Later, he’ll go back to the shop and mourn the loss between customers, will cry and hold Jaime to his chest. Later isn’t now, though, and now, he kisses Steve for as long as he can, until the sweat and come cool and leave him feeling filthy. “We got phones,” Billy says, thumb to Steve’s lips. “Give me your number, you can call me whenever.”

“You’re two hours behind me,” Steve says with a pout. His eyes darken, distant. “Are you sure you don't wanna come?”

To that, Billy shakes his head. “I can’t. You know I would, but I… This is my home, Steve. I can’t go back there, but I… I want you here, with me.”

Steve sighs, breath warm on Billy’s lips. “I wanna be here too,” he admits, closes his eyes. The _with you_ goes unsaid—Billy hears it all the same.

-+-

Later, Billy watches Steve’s plane take off from atop the Sunbird’s hood, the stars twinkling high above. A light wind breezes past, runway lights gleam, and engines start up from all across Los Angeles International Airport, either taking off or preparing to land. Tires screech—fans blow, and lights ascend from the winglets of the McDonnel Douglas MD-11, the craft launching into the air.

He disappears in a cloud of dust, on his way over the ocean and back over land, back to Chicago. So far away from where Billy wants him.

In another life, maybe they could be together, could live in each other’s embrace and survive on that alone. That life isn’t now. _It’ll get better_ , Billy tells himself and sits up, drying his eyes. Venice is twenty-five minutes in the opposite direction—he has a life to get back to, a cat to feed, a shop to maintain. Steve will call when he gets home, probably in the middle of the night, and Billy will answer, and life will go on.

Without each other, with only fleeting memories to get by.

“Love fucking sucks,” Billy says to the empty airspace. The wind answers him with a gust, scattering leaves and dirt into the air. The next plane won’t take off for another minute—Billy leaves before it can even begin down the taxiway.

-+-

“We’re setting up an office in Pasadena,” Steve says six months later, reclining in his office chair with the phone pressed to his ear. He’s supposed to be working, doing business things—his boss is eyeing him from between the blinds—but Billy has always taken priority, now that this thing between them is a thing and not just a fleeting dream.

On the other end of the line, Billy audibly balks, drops what sounds like a box of cards on the floor. Things scatter; someone laughs and offers to help. “Pasadena,” Billy says, not a question. “Who the fuck wants to set up shop in Pasadena?”

“Like I’d know, I’m not from there,” Steve huffs and throws his head back. Mr. Sanderson glares at him and points a finger; Steve waves him off with a sheepish smile and pretends to type. “But they want me to head the marketing department there effective as soon as the paperwork goes through.”

Another long silence, mostly filled with rustling and idle chatter elsewhere. Billy must’ve put the phone down—or forgot Steve was on the phone to begin with. “So,” Billy starts, sudden. A box clunks, loud in Steve’s ear. “Pasadena’s like, fifty minutes from here.”

“I was actually thinking,” Steve says, then pauses, thinks before he speaks for once. He’s thought about it ever since his father brought up the topic of expanding last month, what it might mean if he asked Billy about it, and what if Billy said no. Either way, they’d be living in the same county, or close enough. They could see each other, and not just on the rare few long weekends Steve has had in the last half year. And maybe… “What if we moved in together? Either your apartment, or we get one inland, or—”

“My lease is up at the end of July,” Billy blurts, not the answer Steve was expecting. “There’s a bigger place up the street I’ve been looking at, if you—”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says, quick, and hears Billy sigh. “Yeah, anything, man. The commute’ll be killer, but we can make it work, Billy. We can—Shit, we’ll be in the same city again.”

“You’re moving to California,” Billy says, mirthful. “You know I’m gonna teach you to surf, right?”

Steve laughs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, and you’ll probably laugh when I bust my ass, too.”

“Oh, you bet,” Billy laughs. “I can finally show you off to my new friend, too. Told her all about you, about your hair and what your face looks like when you—”

“Alright, alright,” Steve says, hushed, covering his eyes. “Jesus Christ, is nothing sacred?”

“Nope,” Billy says, popping the P. “Says she can’t wait to see you too. Said it’s really rude you haven’t called her in two weeks, y’know.”

Shit— _Shit_. “Robin?” Steve says, only to hear Billy cackle. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

“She came in looking for some props for some short flick last week,” Billy says, serious as ever. “You should call her back, pretty boy. Tell her the good news, before I spill the beans about her new girlfriend.”

Steve glances at the text document on the monitor, reading two entire rows of just the letter A. “Why do I feel like you two teaming up is the worst idea ever?”

“Might be,” Billy says. Steve can feel his grin through the phone. “We’re gonna have fun, Stevie. You ready?”

Is he ready? “That’s a stupid question,” Steve says, then laughs. Billy hums into the receiver, sending a thrill through Steve’s body. _Is he ready_. “Hell yeah.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! If you know me, you know I'm a huge wingslut and this kinda got out of control, but I love it anyway! I keep coming up with ideas for these two and they end up long and keep stabbing me in the heart, but in a good way. Anyways, I hope y'all had a good holiday and here's to the new year!
> 
> Title is from the Randy Travis song. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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